"Every man in a bar is a stockbroker or a brain surgeon," women bitch. "Men just lie to you. You can't trust them." It would only be fair to admit that men sometimes sculpture the truth to get women into bed. But then they have to, because they know what women want. Men are conscripted players in a game whose rules have been engineered by the female mind, and the playbook decrees that honesty will guarantee sure rejection. Thus, if a potential lover confesses to the object of his interest that he repairs copiers, instead of generalizing that he works for the Xerox Corporation, she will without hesitation disqualify him as not worthy of consideration. He has learned through bitter experience that he must misrepresent his status if he even wants to begin a conversation. If women weren't so intent on selling their sexuality, men would not be pressured into hyperbolizing the truth. This is a program which females themselves have created and which they continue to promote. Then, with their usual circular thinking, they blame men for their obedience. This is like allowing a cat to roam free, and then hating it when it kills a bird. When women, the master con artists, have been conned, they stamp their feet in rage.
But these are the same women who spackle their wrinkles with make-up, Clairol the gray out of their hair, and shore up their meager bustlines with Wonderbras. Aren't liposuction, eye tucks, and silicone breasts every bit as deceptive as a garbage collector fibbing to a woman that he works for a large trucking company? The hypocrisy is self-evident. As is typical with females, they brutally censure men but disregard the rather large motes in their own eyes. When a woman reinvents her looks, her excuse is, "That's what men want", as if a slathering of cosmetics or a plastic surgeon could really make a silk purse out of a sow's face. She is projecting her own shallowness into the minds of men. Women are invincible narcissists, rabidly obsessed with their personal appearance. It is how they ultimately define themselves. As exploiters, they have sufficient time and money to buy the products specifically marketed to them to concoct their fraudulent attractiveness. They merchandise themselves. Even a cursory glance inside any department store is alone proof of this assertion: most of the floor space is taken up by cosmetics, jewelry, perfume, and female clothing. Men don't wear makeup or oil their bodies or agonize for hours over what clothes to wear. This is because women have made men the buyers, not the sellers, and they're too busy working to replace the funds lost on the "fairer" sex to worry about whether their pants make their asses look big. They are nowhere near as superficial or self-absorbed as women, who can shop for recreation because they take such delight in focusing on themselves. The psychology of store displays is hardly arbitrary-a business keeps its doors open by providing the goods its customers demand. It has often been observed that women dress for other women (if they dressed for men, they'd be wearing nothing at all, or something slinky and revealing, which their two-faced sisters would disparage as sleazy-too candidly for sale, implying a low-priced vagina). Females are in fierce competition with each other for men (with money), recruits in a vicious intragender war, an intricate battle of one-upmanship. But they are also sadly warring with nature itself. A woman knows that her appearance is her trade-even if she has to stucco herself from head to toe, she does so to impersonate youth and beauty. Love is marketing. A woman is an imposter, like a scratched piece of gold which exhumes the tarnished brass underneath. She is, as in all her affairs, dishonest with herself, dishonest with men, a liar.
If a university offered a course entitled "How To Marry A Rich Man", women would be scratching each other's eyes out to be the first in line to ante up the tuition; but if there were a class aimed at men, called "How To Get Laid For Free", these same coeds would be screaming sexism and marching with protest signs outside the dean's office. For women-even so-called "liberated" women-marriage is a socially convenient means to make a living: they can get their hands on wealth and prestige simply by vowing "I do" and occasionally spreading their legs. Manipulating a man-especially a rich man-to make a commitment is the Holy Grail of a woman's life, the consummation of all her efforts during her sick charade of "romance". The only truly important act in any woman's life is the selection of the right spouse. It rescues her from any personal responsibility for the future. She may work, but it's often a "no-brainer" job while she's marking time waiting for her future provider to happen along. It will be her husband who's saddled with the mortgage payment while she chips in for the cable bill and considers this "equality". Her motto reads, "My money is mine, his money is ours", the philosophy of an overindulged child. No mother ever taught her daughter that she should grow up to support her husband. The greater a man's salary, the more likely a woman is to eschew any sort of labor, and the more likely she is to sit at home and whine about boredom. The more her husband gives her, the lazier and more demanding she becomes. When she isn't manipulating men, she simply has nothing else to do.
A woman uses marriage to gain power, and once she attains it, her husband is fated to a life of abuse. This is very expensive pussy. When a naturally polygamous male commits to his bride-to-be, not only does he forfeit control of his finances, but he is constrained to forsake all opportunities to mate with other females. Of course, this is in her best interest-she calls it "security"-but it is really a blasphemy against nature. As long as she can coerce him into spending more, more, more on her whims, and as long as he realizes that if he divorces her he will lose half of his assets, she has effectively padlocked him into a chastity belt. No one knows better than she that a woman has no use for an impoverished man. A husband enters into matrimony assuming that the wedding vows have granted his new wife societal approbation to revel in uninhibited sex, but in his naiveté he has not noticed the gleaming pair of castration shears hidden in her bridal bouquet. She has no real interest in him sexually-a workhorse should be out in the fields laboring, not wasting his energies on intercourse. He has dreamed of years of wild passion and pleasurable company; what he gets is a lifetime of mood swings and an infrequent and indifferent lay. A wedding is an orgy of female narcissism. This is her day, her starring role in her personal soap opera, the glorious denouement of all her childhood and cultural fantasies. It is "me" with a capital M. Dating has been a specious and unbridled quest for a man of means and courtship meant keeping her boyfriend hypnotized by the lure of her sexuality, numbing his senses to the trapdoor swinging wide open in front of him. Long before her wedding day she is avidly planning, binging on brides' magazines and being fawned over in dress shops, spending hours picking out the right invitations, wallowing in the presumption that the whole world is focusing on how special she is. She certainly won't forget to arrange for the novel-length lists of gift suggestions at various bridal registries (expensive stores only, of course), and she'll yelp like a pampered child when she rips open presents at her shower. It goes without saying that she is oblivious to the reality that someone must actually pay for her egoism-she is too busy daydreaming about herself, the virtuous, trembling bride, two-stepping down the aisle in a nave like a movie set, all eyes upon her. The wedding guests gasp, awestruck by her beauty and elegance, as if the cold marble of a perfect statue had suddenly come to life.
Her husband-to-be, his mind unclouded by such reveries (there are no grooms' magazines for him), has pacted an uneasy truce with her self-worship. His participation in the nuptial preparations has been to log in more hours at work to pay for the first-class tropical honeymoon she has ordered, which is making him wince even at his salary. It's not for nothing that she forced him down on his knees in front of her to propose. He's not fantasizing about storybook castles or how handsome he'll look in his tuxedo (appropriately enough, a funereal black); instead, he's sweating out the credit-card bill on the two carat diamond' his "Fiancée" has pressured him into buying by skillfully rationing sex. While her mind is awash with abstractions of dizzying "love", he's still cringing from her recent assaults on his manhood-pouting that his house just isn't going to be big enough for her.
A bride doesn't really love her husband-what she is actually in love with is the persona she has created for herself: the blushing newlywed who's fallen head over heels for a good man who will take care of her until death do us part, as if life were really a Doris Day movie. She has succeeded in mythologizing herself. But what she ignores is the reality that she has spurned and demoralized decent suitors who lacked sufficient capital to indulge her tastes; that all along she has used her body as a tool and a weapon; that she is bringing nothing to the marital bargaining table except greed and a vagina; and she has addicted her husband to a sexual fix, so that when she restricts her availability, he will pay any price to get it, thus turning marriage into legalized crime. She is a venal whore and human enough to be at least on some level aware of her inner fraudulence, but the very act of mythologizing her role in this masquerade will guarantee the perpetuation of her self-delusions. Marriage is a cultural gloss on a lifetime of prostitution.
'The custom of the betrothal ring has an ancient origin. The Roman term for the concept was arrha ("earnest money").
Was this article helpful?